Suffering
by Jacalyn Hyde
Summary: "Codependency can be a beautiful thing." Snapshots in the relationship of John Kramer and Amanda Young as they rely on each other for success and survival. Primarily focused on Amanda's apprenticeship. No chronological order. Not intended to be a romance.
1. Time is Precious

_Author's Note: Firstly, an apology to all of you: I am sorry for how inconsistent I have been and will likely continue to be with reviews and updates. Writing fanfiction is not my main focus at the moment, though it is something I miss, terribly. Saw 3D left a bad taste in my mouth and I am still desperate for a sense of _closure_ from the entire series. It's not over yet, not to me. In the meantime, I'm trying something new while finding comfort in the original Saw trilogy and my first love: J/A. There's nothing like blurring the lines for these two. It's going to be bittersweet- _heartbreaking_ at times –but it's also going to shed some light on their dark world. Secondly, I would like to make dedication: to my dear friend Riss –DirtyLittleGleek. This collection- particularly this piece of it –would not exist without her influence and encouragement. I hope you like it._

* * *

"Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through experience of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened, ambition inspired, and success achieved." –Helen Keller.

* * *

Time is Precious  
_-somewhere between Saw II and III-_

"Count backwards from sixty."

"What? Why?"

"_Quickly_. One number per second: start now."

"Um... sixty. Fifty-nine. Fifty-eight. Fifty-seven. Fifty-si ... why am I doing this?"

"It's a game. Just play along."

"But why?"

"You're _counting_, Amanda. And keep in mind that twelve seconds have passed between your hesitance and this conversation."

"Right. Forty- um... _four_? Forty-three. Forty-two." She pauses but decides against voicing another question or objection. She calculates the time lost and resumes. "Thirty-six. Thirty-five. Thirty-four..."

Twenty-two seconds pass. Amanda recites numbers with a steady pace and an uncertain tone. She looks at John with an unspoken question in her eyes, but resolves that humoring him is not such a bad thing and the remaining seconds will pass quickly enough.

"Twelve. Eleven. Ten. Nine. Eight. Sev-"

"_Stop_."

"_What_?"

"Sixty seconds have passed and you only spoke fifty-two numbers."

"Okay... so, _what_?"

"Nothing. I simply want you to understand the concept of one minute. How slowly _and_ how quickly those sixty seconds go by. You miscalculated that just now. You can't do that again."

"But..."

"When you are choosing how many seconds you set a timer for, consider each and every one of them, how precious they are. Imagine if I had give you eight seconds less."

Amanda shivers at the unwelcome mental image of her reverse bear trap snapping closed mere moments after she managed to remove it. She blinks, attempting to banish the memory.

"A few seconds can make all the difference." John continues. "It could mean death _or_ survival. Right now, you counted fifty-two seconds when there were actually sixty."

"I was... _confused_."

"As you certainly would be, in any kind of game."

"Oh." Amanda can't think of anything else to say. She is painfully aware that seventeen seconds go by with absolute silence between them. "Well," she breaks the silence with the first thing she can think of. "You could have made me count _forward_."

"I suppose so. But you had to concentrate more to think backward, didn't you? You couldn't use the logical order of what comes next. You had to consider what happened before, the previous number."

"Right... Okay."

He nods in the direction of the device she's been building. "How long were you planning to set that timer for?"

"Two minutes."

"Have you changed your mind?"

"Yeah," she nods. "At least another eight seconds."

"You don't have to do that. Just think, Amanda. Could you, personally, escape from that device in two minutes or less?"

"Yeah. I think so..." she glances at her creation once again. "Actually, I know I could."

"Then leave it at two minutes."

"But I thought..."

"I wasn't ordering you to add more time. I was simply reminding you to consider each second you do allow your subject."

She nods, suddenly speechless.

"Consider what will be going through his head. Account for factors such as panic, confusion, and hesitation; but you can only be so lenient... Just remember your own test."

Another shiver passes through her. "I will."


	2. Pigs and Puzzle Pieces

"Suffering, once accepted, loses its edge, for the terror of it lessens, and what remains is generally far more manageable than we had imagined." -Lesley Hazelton.

* * *

Pigs and Puzzle Pieces  
_-between Saw I and II- _

Amanda isn't certain if she's more repulsed by the condition of the carcass before her or by the smell coming from it. She's inhaling as little as possible and repressing the urge to shudder.

It's a pig... or, it used to be. Now, it's a rotting, maggot-infested (yet eerily preserved), stinking MESS. It's also her practice-body.

John, apparently, is immune to the disgust-factor. He presents her with a knife and a nod of encouragement.

"The knife is very important," he tells her. "It's a blade of surgical quality. Sharp enough to cut though a limb, but fine enough for even the slightest details."

Amanda replies with a nod of her own and her best attempt at a neutral expression. Suppressing a shudder and the urge to vomit, she crosses to the other side of the table, opposite John and with the creature before her: lying on its side, stomach facing her.

_Oh, god!_

The last time she gripped a knife this tightly, she'd made much deeper cuts.

"We just need a thin layer of skin: the puzzle piece," John reminds her.

"The survival instinct," she recites before he can ask the question she's anticipating. "We cut the piece to illustrate that the failed subject was missing it."

"That's right."

"Yeah..." Amanda takes a deep breath and exhales slowly as she raises the blade to press it against the rotting creature's midsection.

The flesh gives a little at the shallow scrape. She adjusts her angle just slightly and presses deeper. The grayish pink skin is tough, like meat- maybe like burnt steak and... just... _revolting_. Holding her breath, Amanda turns the knife again before making another slice. This will be a corner. Then in for a little semi-circle, out into a jagged edge, up in a straight line, then another curve and...

Her knife scrapes an unexpectedly soft spot- a bruise, infection, or sore, she doesn't know; she doesn't want to know- and she accidentally cuts a little too deep before an inadvertent cry escapes her. She drops the blade entirely and steps back.

John retrieves the knife for her and holds it out expectantly. "Try again."

"One sec." Amanda manages to catch her breath. She hesitantly approaches the table again, reaches across it, over the pig, to accept the knife again.

"It's different with a human subject," John comments when she reluctantly lowers the blade again. "Especially a freshly-dead human."

"Right." Amanda groans. "Probably smells different too..."

Of course, Amanda practicing on an actual human body is out of the question. Failed test subjects are left for the police to find and it's important that pieces cut from them can pass for John's handiwork.

"Sorry," She retracts her ill-humored comment and attempts to make amends while still stalling as much as possible. "Um... how long have these pigs been here?"

"Since the warehouse was operational."

"Oh..." Amanda attempts to calculate that information. John owns the building still. It must have shut down _before_ he started this Jigsaw-thing, so...

"Almost a year."

"Okay..." she doesn't ask, she's not sure she even _wants_ to know the whole story. What she does unenthusiastically consider is the _one-year-old_ carcass on the table before her.

She does her best to block out that thought- and every other one as well. Her grip on the knife is firm, but not quite as desperate as before. She chooses a new section: above the thing's navel and sighs as she creates another slice, beginning with a corner piece. A slight indention. Semi-circle.

_Careful cuts with just the right depth_, she prompts herself. _Breathe. Edge. Up. Indent. Slow. Careful..._

"_Oh_!" Suddenly, too-suddenly, reality hits her. Is she actually mutilating a stinking, skeletal piece of...

"_Shh_," John whispers. She almost slips again, but he catches her hand, squeezes it gently, and guides her through the final turn. "_There_."

He lets her go and she recoils with sudden shyness, gripping the knife as if her life depends on that hold. He removes the severed piece with a pair of tweezers, slips it into a plastic bag, and holds it up for her examination.

"Cool," is probably the dumbest thing she could say now; and, yet it's the only word she manages to utter before averting her eyes again.

"You need to keep practicing," John says after allowing her thirty seconds of silence and self-pity. He's not oblivious to her discomfort. But it's one of his rules: you can only be so lenient with people. And she knows it. She's being a crybaby and he needs her to be better, stronger than that.

She rubs at her eyes using the back of the hand that isn't holding the knife and wipes away a few tears she wasn't even aware of shedding.

"I do apologize for the condition of your practice body," John verbalizes some unexpected sympathy. "It _is_ disgusting."

"Um..." Amanda wonders briefly if there's a trick question in there somewhere. "Yeah. I guess..."

"Something else you should consider..." John begins quietly, then pauses.

Amanda blinks and looks up at him. "What?"

"Fresh human bodies have something this animal does not."

"Huh?" She glances over the carcass again then mentally replays her mini-surgery until the answer comes to her. It should have been obvious. "_BLOOD_."

"Exactly. And blood is messy. It's another factor to think about, anyway. Later, I'm going to find you a fresher animal and... we'll see."

Amanda sighs again. She doesn't wait for instruction to take another stab at the creature's midsection. It's too-deep: it was an emotional strike, a stupid impulse and she knows it. She retracts the blade, shivering slightly as she does, then looks up at John again, bracing herself for a reprimand that never comes.

She counts to ten mentally then gives the technique yet another attempt.


	3. Needles in a Haystack

"Suffering is but another name for the teaching of experience, which is the parent of instruction and the schoolmaster of life." -Horace (Ancient Roman Poet.)

* * *

Needles in a Haystack  
_-just before Saw II- _

Amanda crouches at the edge of the six-foot-deep hole. "_Needles_?" She inquires, expressing disapproval, not doubt.

"Yes. Needles," John confirms with no particular emotion. "Thousands of them."

"Okay... " Amanda nods and lowers her gaze to stare into the pit again. It's about halfway full (or still halfway empty?) now. The majority of the syringes have obviously been used before. "What's in them?"

John almost looks surprised by the question but his answer is calm and direct as ever. "Medical waste, mostly: some blood, drugs, or remnants from immunizations."

Amanda blinks in discomfort before restoring their eye-contact. "But nothing that could be, like... _fatal_?"

John's eyes widen, if only for a second. "No." The '_of course no_t' is unspoken, but obvious.

Amanda leans over just enough to fish a syringe out of the pit. It's _too_-familiar. Whether they cause her pain or make her forget it, she is accustomed to needles: she's just currently undecided if they're her friend or foe. The only constant is the eerie chill of anticipation hurting more than the actual injection. It's enough to scare anyone; and this many of them...

She shivers, absentmindedly curling her fingers around the syringe in her hand. She hesitantly decides to voice her only criticism. "So... the only real _test_..." she begins in a meek whisper. "Is that it _hurts_?"

John doesn't even blink in response. Mark had that same objection earlier. It is an understandable concern- for someone who isn't looking closely enough. John nods and clarifies: "Xavier has three minutes to climb into this pit, dig through thousands of needles, find the key, then get out and retrieve the antidote. Several things could go wrong here. Failures don't always result in death and pain is not the only aspect of this game."

Amanda opens her mouth to respond but Hoffman chooses that moment to reappear with another box of syringes. John ignores him but Amanda can only pretend to. A combination of distrust and resentment course through her. She fights off the impulse to glare at him, or even actually say something.

"Do you know why that is?" John inquires as if they hadn't been interrupted.

Hoffman upends the box of needles, dumping its contents into the sinister pit and ignoring John and Amanda just as coolly and casually as they're excluding him. He's been working all day with silent compliance for John and feigned indifference toward Amanda.

She rolls her eyes, keeps her focus on John. She takes a few seconds to remember what they were discussing. Right: Xavier's test. "Yeah," she nods dutifully. "I get it."

"Explain it for me," John directs with what might be some misplaced amusement and curiosity.

_WHY_? Amanda groans mentally, throwing a quick glare at Hoffman. _The box is empty, you stupid shit! GO AWAY!_

In spite of her continuing nonverbal orders and insults, Hoffman shows no signs of immediate departure. He returns her look with a spiteful half-grin.

"Amanda," John prompts after a few more seconds of silent tension.

She sighs. "It's a metaphor: the needles could be a literal repercussion, from the heroin and shit he was selling..." Another shiver passes through her. It has nothing to do with the fresh layer of needles or her unnecessarily prolonged exposure to the detective. She clicks her tongue and continues. "But your other point is that actions have consequences and salvation comes with a price. That's why there's the element of pain and fear. That's why he has to suffer."

"There's another box in the car," John says when she finishes. Amanda takes a few seconds to realize he's not talking to her; not praising, correcting, or even acknowledging her answer; but, instead, instructing Hoffman, paying attention to him for the first time since he entered the room. Dejected, she scowls and tosses her needle back into the pit. "After that, I'll need your help with the door."

"Alright, then," Hoffman replies. He's looking at Amanda rather than John and wearing an expression halfway between a glower and a smirk. He exits with the empty box, presumably aware of the fact that she'd like nothing more than to hurt him.

"You can set up that safe," John says after a few seconds.

"Mmm." Hoffman left, so he must be talking to her again. She pulls herself into a standing position and nods compliantly. He takes something from his pocket and holds it out for her to take: a key, attached to an unactivated glow-stick. "Make sure that works, ensure everything's in place."

"Okay." It's stupid one-word obedience. But what else is she supposed to say now?

"The glass box in the next room, also..." That gets a slight smile out of her. "I've already explained that. Do you think you can manage the-"

"Yeah." It's a simple enough trap, but it's one of her favorite so far. And, now it has an all-new significance. He's giving her trust and independence: her first solo project. "No problem."


	4. Waiting for Death

"What is deservedly suffered must be borne with calmness, but when the pain is unmerited, the grief is resistless." -Ovid (Roman Poet.)

* * *

Waiting for Death  
_-a few days after Saw I-_

"He's still alive," Amanda comments, seemingly at random. John looks up, obviously understanding the implication. But she decides to clarify anyway. "_Adam_. He's alive."

John and Amanda set up the bathroom game almost five days ago but they have not actually discussed the results. In fact, this is the first time it's even been mentioned since the brief report he gave her that same day. Amanda knows that Lawrence is alive, but the little concern she has expressed thus far has been for Adam.

John is aware of the other man's condition. Amanda isn't telling him this because she thinks he doesn't already know. She's speaking, instead, with the deliberate subtlety of an unspoken question. (What are we going to _do_ about it?)

His answer is vaguely harsh. "He had his chance." It's simple, yet sufficient. (No, we are not going to interfere in any way.)

Amanda understands. She has no reason to push the issue, but she does anyway. "We're just going to let him starve, aren't we?" It's all she can say without revealing the two rules she's already breaking: her emotional involvement and the fact that she's returned to the crime scene twice now. Just last night, she went with a bottle of water and a full loaf of bread in her hands, before deciding against the interaction. She couldn't even open the door that time. Somehow, she just knows it, though. Adam is alive, and it's her fault...

"Adam made his choice," John sighs finally, after almost a full minute of silence between them. "The rules of the game stated that-"

"I know!" Amanda snaps in interruption. "I _know_ that he's gonna die, okay? I know that he _deserves_ it... But..." She averts her eyes and exhales slowly. "It was different when we thought that gunshot wound could have killed him... It just seems _cruel_... you know? Making him _wait_ for death? Without any hope or resources or any-"

John silences her with one raised finger and a simple demand: "Think about what you just said."

Amanda blinks and frowns before repeating her last sentiment: "It's cruel?"

"No..." John waits for her to look up again, and restores their eye-contact before he finishes the explanation. "You said, 'he deserves it.' ... Do you believe that?"

"I..." She shakes her head, but it's a gesture of frustration, not objection. Finally, she shrugs. "I guess so."

"Adam is just sitting around. Wasting his time... _waiting_ _to die_..." He pauses just long enough to confirm that Amanda is beginning to see the parallel. "He's been like that for some time now: the majority of his life, actually... So, what's really changed for him?"

The question takes Amanda by surprise. She opens her mouth for a moment, but closes it immediately. She has no words: no argument here. Not even a decent guess.

"The _scenery_?" John suggests almost-sarcastically. "Or is it just that we've removed the illusion of a possible escape from that life?"

Amanda's eyes widen in a weak, nonverbal protest, but, still, she says nothing.

"It's not cruelty," John continues, his tone now seeming to contradict this assurance. "We gave him a chance and he didn't take it. Your game was no different. If you had failed or hesitated too long, you would be dead. That's how it works. That's what it's all about: _life_ and what little control we have here."

Silence.

"Amanda..." He resumes the monologue moments later with a suddenly-softer tone. She startles. She _is_ paying attention. She's hanging on his every word with a combination of trust and shaky resentment; but the sound of her name still manages to send chills through her. "I need you to understand that."

She manages a nod, suggesting obedience if not comprehension; and John concludes: "Sometimes, it's necessary."


	5. No Accounting For It

suffering (_sfr-ng,_ˈsʌfrɪŋ) (n)  
**1.** the pain, misery, or loss experienced by a person who suffers**  
2.** the state or an instance of enduring pain, etc.

* * *

No Accounting For It  
-somewhere between Saw I and II-

_Fresh air_: that's what she said she needed. _Time_ is what she meant. Time and space- _to think_ or try to.

She should have known, at least suspected it from the beginning: from the first terrible coughing fit she witnessed almost two weeks ago. When she asked if he had a cold_ or something_, he nodded and grinned with some odd, misplaced amusement, "Something like that." How did she not notice the symptoms persisting? _Worsening_? When he did tell her the truth, all she managed to say was, "_NO_." Stupid, childish _denial_. She can't help it. All the irrational protests died before they could even reach her lips.

_You said "apprentice," not "successor"... _  
_You can't die. You can't leave me..._  
_Because I can't do this..._  
_I can't do this _without you_. _

They're all selfish, meaningless words. Not what John needs to hear. Not when he's counting on her. Amanda sighs. She attempts- and fails -to hold back another flood of tears. She hugs her sketchbook (the only friendly object nearby) closely against her chest and whimpers, "_Fuck_."

* * *

She's on the loading dock, in the far-right corner between the wall and one of the smaller forklifts. Sometimes small spaces make her feel safe.

Her sketchbook is balanced on her lap. Her eyes are turned to her current page and a pen is poised thoughtfully in her right hand, but she is unmoving, her expression is sorrowful and her mind is clearly far away from here.

She startles when he takes a a step closer, looks up and whispers a weak hello. He forces a smile with equal effort before bending slightly to grasp a corner of the book in her hand. Amanda grabs another and clings to it with sudden hesitance. When he doesn't let go after a few seconds, she exhales meekly and surrenders.

John turns the book around and rises to read it. There is a single word on the page; in all capital letters and shaky handwriting: _CANCER_. It has been underlined twice and crossed-out once.

He shuts his eyes for one pained moment then breathes a half-formed sigh. Amanda's expression is somewhere between embarrassed and apologetic. John does not respond immediately. He hands the book back to her. She absentmindedly accepts it, dropping her pen in the process.

_Great_. Now they're both at a loss for words.

After a beat, John extends a hand, Amanda accepts it and he gently pulls her to her feet. They maintain the handhold longer than necessary and, when he does let go, John moves to grasp Amanda's shoulder briefly in a firm but reassuring gesture.

"Tell me," he begins, slow and unnaturally calm. "What else is on your mind?"

* * *

(A/N: This is the shortest chapter so far. I think you'll forgive me because I paired it with the longest. By all means: click the "NEXT CHAPTER" button.)


	6. Your Dead Cellmate

_"Come on and take the stand; and kick him till you think he understands._  
_Until you learn to live of night and day, you are never going to be okay._  
_Until you learn the meaning of life, you are never going to be alright."_  
_-_Satchel_, "_Suffering_."_

_

* * *

_

Your Dead Cellmate  
-a few days before Saw I-

"You told me he was dead."

John looks up from his sketch and glances over his shoulder. Amanda is curled up on the floor in the corner behind him, her book and pen poised in front of her. It's only their second full day together. Of course, he hasn't told her everything just yet; and she has several concerns of her own as well: persistent drug withdrawal symptoms, denial, uncertainty, the fact that she does not entirely trust John yet, but; as she said herself, she has no where else to go. He spent the majority of the past two nights answering her questions and slowly coming to the realization that they can help each other. They need each other.

The blank sketchbook he gave her is serving as more of a diary than anything else. She's spent every free moment either staring at the empty pages or scribbling random thoughts onto them. Every so often, she voices a concern, a question about his method, or a delayed reaction to an aspect of her own test. This is no exception. Her tone is strangely soft and calm despite the accusation. He knows exactly what she's talking about.

Donnie Greco. The man whose stomach held her key. The man she "killed."

_"Only one key will open the device. It's in the stomach of your dead cellmate..."_

The use of the word "cellmate" was deliberate. To remind her of her time in prison. To make her pay attention the space her game took place in as well as the importance of the rules being followed to allow her escape. But it's the other term that Amanda is still focused on.

As calmly as possible, John turns his chair around to face her. She could accept his explanation immediately or she could create an argument as lengthy as she likes. Either way, she has his complete attention. Amanda herself sits up a little straighter and punctuates her accusing statement with a question. "Why?"

"He _was_ dead."

Amanda shakes her head, her expression colored with both confusion and the early stages of anger. "_No_," she objects, her voice barely above a whisper. "I know what I saw, okay? He... he looked at me.."

John repeats his statement because it really is the truth and, soon enough, Amanda will see that. "He was dead."

Amanda's mouth is open wide in a momentary display of speechlessness. When she does recover, she drops her book and snaps, "What's wrong with you? You set it up! You should know! He was alive!... He was drugged: he couldn't move or anything, but _he looked at me_..." Her voice nearly breaks on those last few words and her eyes bear the early warning signs of possible tears.

"_Dead_, Amanda," he says firmly, waiting for her to look at him again before continuing. "Dead where it matters: dead _on the inside_."

At that point, a few tears do manifest and begin to stream softly down her cheeks. She repeats, "He looked at me" a third time, as if this makes all the difference. In her mind, it does. It appears her pain is coming in waves; she's had a lot of time to think about her test and her life overall. This aspect brings a different kind of emotion than her earlier inquiries - "_How_ do you know me?" and "How, exactly, can I help _you_?" John is answering her questions, offering her comfort: doing what he can for her but she's still coming to terms with everything she's been through recently.

"He was injected with an opiate overdose..." John explains. "He couldn't move, and, I can assure you, he barely felt anything." The man's drugged state was another deliberate setup serving more than one purpose: subduing the "victim" as well as creating a parallel to the heroin overdose from a few months ago that Amanda barely survived.

She nods and whispers, "I know" while brushing away a few tears.

"He had a test of his own," John continues. He's never shared this particular detail before. "He had a chance and he failed. There was a poison coursing through him which would have killed him in a matter of hours anyway; I let him become a part of your test rather than just wait for that to happen."

"But you told me he was dead." Amanda has officially dragged this discussion in a full circle.

John sighs. "I told you the man was dead because, as far as I'm concerned, he was; he might as well have been. Now, let that go for a moment and think about your own actions. If you had known he was technically still living, would you have hesitated any more or less in the search for your key?"

"More! Of course I would hesitate!"

"Of course you _did_. But you knew you would die if you didn't complete the test, so what difference would it have made?"

Amanda's eyes are swelling and her mouth is open wide but no more tears or words escape her now. When she does manage to relax, her expression is somewhere between hopelessness and blind trust. It's good enough for now. She doesn't press the issue so John introduces another. He holds a hand out invitingly, "Come have a look at this..." He places an older picture of the same design next to his current sketch. Side-by-side, they provide two angles of one device. "It's a Death Mask," he explains once they are both facing the desk again. Amanda is peering over his shoulder, one hand resting on his arm as if for guidance or security. "These two pieces-"

"Nails," Amanda interrupts, verbally acknowledging the first detail she notices. "Frames... and they snap together," she observes the design with a mixture of intrigue and apprehension. "It's like an Iron Maiden just for the face."

John nods, actually amused by the analogy. _Iron Maiden... does Amanda know much else about medieval torture device concepts?_

Amanda voices another question after a moment of silent reverence, "Where's the key?"

"It will be secured behind his eye," John turns his head to look at her again, opting to give the simplest answer for now.

Amanda's eyes widen and she makes a non-commital sound. "Hmm..."

"Was that meant to express your approval or _dis_approval?"

"Neither... _but_..." She pauses, chewing on her lower lip for a moment, her eyes moving to rest on the book she left lying in the far corner. "But that's the other thing I meant to ask you about..."

"Yes?" John prompts, patient but expectant.

"Um..." Amanda exhales slowly, suddenly nervous and almost regretful. "Why didn't you put my key somewhere in my body?" She manages. "You've done it before: had people hurt themselves to win a game... Why didn't I have to cut _myself_ open?"

John should have anticipated this: everything they discuss at this stage is going to come back to her test at one point or another. She and Michael have almost nothing in common but the two devices might be close enough to merit some comparison. He does have an answer and she might be ready to hear- if not ready to accept it.

"The purpose of your test was for you to confront and learn to cure your self-harming tendencies," he explains. "Having you cut yourself open would have been counter-productive. It would have taught you that self-destruction was the key to salvation."

"Instead, you gave me a 'kill-or-be-killed test'," she says, speaking with a calm and trusting tone that seems to contradict what she is actually thinking and feeling. "You had me cut someone else open..."

_You taught me something else entirely..._ It lies unspoken between them but it's understood nonetheless. John might as well be able to read her mind and, he resolves, he can make her understand.

"I made you see what could have happened to you if you had continued down that self-destructive path. I helped you realize that you wanted to live and what you had to live for as well as the sacrifice you had to make in order to earn that second chance..."

Her grip on his arm suddenly weakens. It feels like more of a loss than it should. He tries another approach: "Does that make sense?"

"Yeah," Amanda nods and blinks a few times. "So..." She lets go of him completely and uses that hand instead to tap one corner of the newer sketch. Apparently in a hurry to change the subject, she asks. "Who's this one for?"


	7. Won't Last Forever

(A/N: Despite all of my ideas and intentions, this is the only story that I am actively working on right now -see my profile page for more information. My current goal is to write a new favorite piece for Sick Twisted Mind. -I don't think this will be it, though. Also, I need more quotes and/or lyrics that include the word "suffering." Suggestions –and reviews- would be hugely appreciated.)

* * *

"_I've lost myself to you, now I can't see so clearly. Now, my decisions: they bring me confusion. My only solution to rid them is throw you away…  
Endless days won't last forever. I see myself. Now I'm back inside this painful wall. Would you set me free? 'Cause I'm suffering. (We're suffering.)"  
–From Zero, "Suffering." _

* * *

Endless Days Won't Last Forever_  
-the night before Saw III-_

It's a little after two in the morning. Amanda is lying awake and, for once, it's not because of a nightmare, but a renewed sense of dread. With a sigh, she sits up, slides her bare feet into a nearby pair of combat boots and pulls a faded blue sweatshirt over her sports bra and the flannel pants that match it. It's enough, she decides, just for a quick checkup.

She quietly makes her way to John's sickroom. The door is open- as it always is -and Amanda pushes one section of the plastic curtains aside so she can peer into the room and see that John is awake, sitting up in bed and working by candlelight; holding a pair of scissors and what looks like a simple photograph.

"I'm fine," he calls, just loud enough for her to hear. "Go back to bed."

Amanda frowns at the dismissal. What is she? A child being sent to her room? She hasn't done anything to deserve that treatment. She pretends she didn't hear him, pushes the curtain open further, steps inside, and inquires, "What are you working on?"

John drops the scissors onto the bedside table and sets the photograph face-down on the bed beside him.

Amanda scowls and doesn't bother to hide her sudden resentment.

After a few seconds, John finally gives her a verbal response, "Don't worry about this." He exhales slowly and moves his hand over the picture in a presumably subconscious effort to further hide it from her. He concludes with a promise, "I'll tell you all about it… later."

"_When_?" She demands with a tone halfway between a hiss and a whimper.

There's a wave of unexpected emotion in John's eyes. It vanishes as quickly as it appears, but not before it can be identified as a combination of anxiousness and sorrow. "Tomorrow," he replies in a soft murmur. "When Jeff is finished."

Amanda shakes her head and glowers. "Since when do we keep secrets from each other?"

"You tell me," John responds coolly, not missing a beat. "When did the secret-keeping start?"

He wants to turn this on her: make everything her fault. But she's not giving in. "_You_ kept things from me, from the very beginning."

"I never said that I would tell you everything. But I've given you all the information you needed, and more."

She knows it's the truth, but it's still just as infuriating as her latest realization: "You don't trust me."

"I do trust you," he corrects with a small sigh. "I trust you with my life."

Amanda doesn't think before she snaps, "And your _legacy_?"

John counters her rhetorical question with one of his own, "What is this really about?"

Amanda decides against saying anything else. She merely shakes her head again, this time with a defiant expression she deliberately over-dramatizes.

"Tomorrow's... _a big day_," John breaks the silence, ignoring the gesture. "We could use a little sleep."

"Okay," Amanda sighs. She crosses to the other side of his bed, picks up the candle and sets it back down a few inches farther away, then turns her attention to John, forcing a weak smile for his benefit. Stalling, she asks, "You need anything?"

"No, I'm alright." His right hand reaches out, grabs her left one and squeezes it, almost seeming to contradict the assurance. His thumb traces a line on her palm, but his tired blue eyes are really focused on her widening brown ones. When she blinks and looks away, he immediately lets go of her hand, only managing to whisper a simple, "Good night."

Amanda nods and slowly steps back toward the door. She murmurs a barely audible, "'_Night_" before parting the curtains again and shoving the pieces out of her way with enough force to leave them swaying like a limp ghost behind her.

John counts each retreating footstep then sucks in a deep breath that escapes him in a series of muffled, dry coughs. He pulls open the drawer of the bedside table and takes a final inventory of the game's finishing touches: the printed note cards and the pieces of the gun.

Not for the first time tonight, a sudden rush of pain seizes control of his body. This particular wave is a combination of physical and emotional weakness he's finding more and more difficult to combat; but it's almost over anyway. He shuts his eyes and lies back against the pillows, counting the seconds until he can regain some semblance of composure.

When he does, he reaches to slide the candle that Amanda moved back to its original location, then resumes the task of cutting the faces of Lynn and Jeff's family from the photograph. He has to concentrate to keep his hands from shaking too much and it requires more effort than usual.

He knows exactly how each and every one of tomorrow's games is going to play out: where all the pieces are going to fall. He lets a few more minutes pass in silence, entertaining the idea- _the hope_ -that maybe, just this once, he will be wrong on at least one count.


	8. The Eye of the Beholder

(Author's Note: Yes, I'm back- _for real this time_. Everything you need to know is on my profile page. Please let me know what you think. -Lia.)

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"_Suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope." –Romans 5:3-4._

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The Eye of the Beholder_  
-before Saw I-_

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Amanda stands on her tiptoes to reach the top of the bookshelf she's been cleaning off and drags her damp rag in a zigzag along the dark wooden surface, then in three large semi-circles. She sighs but it's accompanied with a half-smile. John's keeping her busy with the intent of keeping her mind of the drug. The withdrawal symptoms are kicking her ass, but there's still work to be done.

She is grateful for this particular task though; dusting off some old furniture is neither physically nor emotionally taxing. It's mindless work with a bit of privacy too; she's free to let her mind wander but she's also afraid to do that. Instead, she turns her complete attention to both the old and new elements of the room she was told to "clean and reorganize." It's _housework_. Something that seems so petty and trivial by her standards but she's not going to question it, not with her rapidly approaching exhaustion (she can't entirely blame the drugs for that) and the fact that John very obviously needs some time alone with his latest ideas.

This is the last of the three bookshelves that were left empty back when this room was a manager's office for the factory. Three bookshelves, two filing cabinets, one desk, three chairs, and a large full-length mirror that- all things considered -seems hugely out of place. Then there are the ten cardboard boxes in the corner closest to the door full of ornaments: small figurines, globes, paperweights, nameplates, lamps and, of course, books on several subjects. Engineering, naturally, but there's also quite a few for history, anatomy, philosophy, psychology, and even art.

She crosses to the desk where she left a large bucket of soap and water, drops the rag she's been using into that mix and exchanges it for a cleaner one that she rinses off and wrings out before heading over to the mirror. She scrubs over the frame, and then goes over the glass in a slightly gentler manner: careful, but fast. It's entirely by accident that she catches the reflection she was trying to avoid. She knows that she looks like hell, but she still has to drag herself away from the confirmation.

Breathing more heavily than she should be under the circumstances, Amanda retraces her steps, moving to discard this rag just like the first one, but first squeezing it into a tight little ball in one fist. She drops it into the water bucket with enough force to create a small splash. It's not enough to merit any extra cleanup, but enough that a small wave of water escapes to attack her face, jolting her into further alertness and causing her dark eyeliner to run. A few black teardrops slide down her cheeks. The rest of the makeup merely smears and stings her eyes when she rubs at it. _Perfect_.

She drags Box #1 over to Bookcase #1. The numbers only exist in her mind but some bit of organization is necessary. John would know what to do with all this shit, but Amanda just has to deal with it one step at a time. She decides to devote the entirety of this bookcase and two shelves from the second to the four bookends shaped like skeletons and to books on the subject of engineering. She spends the next hour and a half organizing them alphabetically by author's name. Two more hours find her little library complete with strategically placed tools and odd little decorations- some more interesting or more useful than others. Aside from the two empty filing cabinets, which John may or may not find some use for, the work is done.

With a sigh, Amanda turns her attention instead to the full-length mirror in the corner of the room. She somewhat-hesitantly decides to face what the faded and cracked mirror in the bathroom has not been able to give her: the real damage to her appearance, the scars, _everything_. She supports herself by clinging to one side of the mirror's wooden frame. She means that hold to help with her emotional instability but a sudden spell of dizziness proves it might be needed to help keep her on her feet as well.

Her skin is paler than it's ever been, although her face bears a sickly yellowish glow. Her eyes- ruined makeup aside -are tired and puffy. They betray everything she's feeling and so much more. Her lips are chapped and the spot near the center of her lower lip that she keeps biting and picking at is swelling an angry purple color. Her hair is a tangled, frizzy mess. She hasn't done anything more than brush it since John took her in. Her fingernails are severely chipped and, for once, unpolished. The skin on her hands and forearms is still pink and overly sensitive from all her effort scrubbing away the blood that was on them- the actual as well the psychosomatic. And then there are the scars. She traces a finger down one cheek to the corner of her mouth, repeats that process with the other side. They don't really hurt anymore- not physically anyway.

She squeezes her eyes shut to banish the sight. That turns out to be a mistake because it triggers an even worse mental image: her hands tightly gripping a knife, then a key soaked in the warm blood and who-knows-what-else of a man she's never even spoken to. The man she just-

"You're healing..."

Amanda gasps involuntarily. _John_. She didn't even hear him approaching. She's too dazed to respond for a few seconds. He must sense this because he murmurs, "Don't worry," as he steps closer. Still clinging to one side of the mirror frame, she turns to face him.

When Amanda does recover enough to speak, she simply inquires, "_Healing_?" John doesn't give a verbal explanation. Instead, he raises one hand and touches it gently to her cheek. He drags one finger down in a slow, gentle path from where one cut actually begins to the corner of her mouth. When she averts her eyes and exhales sharply, his touch returns to her cheek, strokes it in a momentary warm caress, then disappears entirely.

Amanda forces herself to breathe slowly. This time she is the one to initiate eye-contact and she holds it, hoping her eyes display the trust and gratitude she really does feel rather than the new wave of dread and resentment she can feel approaching. Finally, she opens her mouth to speak but not before John's suddenly concerned expression sends her off-course.

"Amanda-"

Finding her voice again, miraculously, she gets right to the point: "_Dizzy_." The symptom is all he really needs to hear. She figured out yesterday that beginning or ending with "I'm fine" was both a lie and a waste of time.

"Sit down," he gestures to one of the three matching chairs pressed against the desk.

"Um, it's okay," she manages. "I was gonna go take a shower, anyway..." She trails off and pauses; for permission to leave the room or feedback from her latest assignment, she doesn't know, but she receives neither. After a few more seconds, she lets go of the mirror she's been clinging to. One finger catches on something sharp that she can't see- perhaps a stray splinter. She catches her reflection again in the process of trying to find it, and she can't suppress a sigh.

Momentarily forgetting John's presence, her gaze lingers for a few extra seconds. She looks closer as if this mirror has all her answers- backward, of course, but there nonetheless.

"You're _beautiful_," John's current tone is the softest and kindest she's ever heard him use. She turns back to face him, mouth open with a combination of disbelief and very real appreciation.

"Do you know that?" He inquires, catching her off-guard before she's even completed her turn. "Has anyone ever told you that?"

Amanda's forced smile twists into a very genuine one. There's a familiar tingling in her eyes: _tears_, she wouldn't be surprised. It doesn't take much to set her off these days. And if she's being honest: _no_. No one has ever told her anything like that- at least not in a way that mattered. No one's ever cared that much...

The words get caught in her throat on her first two attempts, but she finally manages an awkward whisper, "Thank you."

It's not just the compliment she owes him thanks for and she's certain John knows that. He gave her a new life, a home, a purpose... and, thus far, he hasn't asked for anything in return. Perhaps they knew each other in a past life… because she certainly hasn't done anything to deserve him in this one.


End file.
